


Falling, So Much Like Stars

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Post-Series, Romance, Snow, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 11:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5454533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love with Jo Martinez was easy. Acting on it was much harder. But Abe was right—it <em>was</em> time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling, So Much Like Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaeveBran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaeveBran/gifts).



> Hey, MaeveBran—I really hope you enjoy this. You mentioned you liked fluff and romance, so I had a lot of fun playing with Henry's sappy, hopelessly-romantic side.
> 
> Huge thanks to the wonderful idelthoughts for the beta work. You rock!

Snow fell across the city, softening the stark grays and stiff lines of buildings and streets. Huge, white flakes fluttered past the shop windows, and Henry settled in to watch, coffee in hand. People rushed by, huddled deep in their coats and scarves as they tried to escape the cold, while Henry savored the heated, calm indoors and each bittersweet sip from his cup.

A dark-haired woman caught his attention. He leaned forward. Blue eyes, twenties, too short. Not Jo. With a sigh, Henry sank back into place, and he let his mind wander.

Another time, another life. The same city, vastly different, but also covered in a blanket of white. A beauty with snow caught in her blonde hair, on her eyelashes, on her tongue, laughing with delight as she taught their son to capture snowflakes in his mouth. Their faces lit up when they spotted Henry. Abigail called his name and waved, but Abe tackled him at full speed, and hugged him as tightly as a small child could manage.

Outside his reverie, footsteps approached from behind. "I've always been rather fond of snow," Henry said, as Abe came up beside him. "It's peaceful."

"Everywhere else, sure. In New York?" Abe snorted. "'Peaceful' is the last thing I'd call it."

A wry grin crossed Henry's face. "So much cynicism from a young man who pelted me with snowballs just last week." He looked askance at Abe. "What are you doing down here anyway? Shouldn't you be in the kitchen?"

"Eh, you deserved it." Abe shoved his hands in his pockets. "You waiting on Jo?" he said, his voice suspiciously nonchalant.

Oh, not this conversation again. "Abe..."

"What?" Abe said, eyes wide.

With a huff, Henry said, "You know exactly what."

"Hey, I'm just making small talk," Abe said. "Not my fault if you want to read something else into it."

"I know that tone, Abraham," Henry said. "I know that look. The badly feigned innocence, the flimsy excuse for subtlety. We've already had this discussion, and I—"

Another brunette hurried past the shop. Right height, but too pale, and Jo would never wear such a garish orange coat. Henry tamped down the flare of disappointment.

"Uh-huh," Abe said, with a pointed look, and crossed his arms.

"I just want to be ready when she arrives." The words came out too quickly, too defensively, and Henry buried his frustration in another drink.

"It's okay to be excited," Abe said, "considering you're in love with her and all."

Henry choked. "Abe, please," he gritted out, and set his cup on a nearby table. "Why do we—" He broke off, coughing, and pounded his chest with his fist.

"Wow. Didn't realize that was supposed to be a secret." Abe smacked Henry's back. "You all right?"

Once he could breathe, Henry wiped his watery eyes. "Why do we keep talking about this?" he rasped. "Jo and I have barely become friends again, and now you're—" He paused to clear his stinging throat. "—trying to play matchmaker? Why?"

"Henry, it's been months," Abe said, in a softer tone, and laid his hand between Henry's shoulders. "That's not 'barely' for the rest of us. She forgave you for not telling her about your little condition, she's perfectly fine with you again, and I've seen the way two look when you talk about each other. You light up, and when she's not mad at you—and sometimes even when she _is_ —so does she. She likes you, you like her...you do the math."

"Abraham..."

"I know, I know—it's 'not that simple.'" Abe squeezed Henry's shoulder. "But have you ever stopped to think that maybe it could be? That maybe you're making this a lot more complicated than it is?"

Resisting the urge to stamp his foot like a child, Henry said, "Except it _is_ complicated."

"All love is complicated," Abe retorted. "Do you love her?" Henry winced. "I mean, I already know the answer, but since you apparently need it spelled out for you: Do you love Jo?"

A simple question, with a simple answer. He hadn't planned to fall for her, but fall he did, for her kindness and her wit, her confidence and her strength. Loving Jo was easy. Admitting that aloud, however, was not. If Jo didn't love him, and if he lost her again...no, Henry refused to consider that.

He searched his mind for another topic, but the tight set of Abe's jaw told him Abe would tolerate no diversions. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I love Jo—she's a dear, dear friend, and I—"

Abe nodded once, satisfied. "Do you trust her?"

The only person he trusted more was Abe. "Yes," he said.

"And you care about her, and you think she's great, yeah?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Henry said, "Where are you going with this?" then gave Abe a pleading look.

"You know where I'm going with this," Abe said, with an obstinate stare, and, oh, Abe was right. Henry's stomach sank. "I'm going to ask you if you're in love with her. So: Are you in love with Jo?"

Out of habit, Henry lied, and said, "I don't know."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Abe muttered. "How are you so utterly hopeless?" Then, in a louder voice, he said, "Yeah, you do. You know it, I know it, and, heck, Jo probably knows it. I'm just trying to get you to admit the answer to yourself. Are you in love with Jo?"

"That's hardly enough foundation for a relationship beyond friendship," Henry said. "Jo deserves someone who can make her happy, someone to grow old with. Someone who can provide her with stability, even a family if she wants. Someone she can trust."

"You made Mom pretty happy," Abe said, voice serious. "She left, sure, but she loved you 'til the end. And you've made me happy. I don't say this a lot, but you're a great dad, and you're a great friend and a great man." He clapped Henry on the back. "You might be a little screwed up, but who the heck isn't, huh?"

"I don't think it'd work."

"I do," Abe said. "And you've gotta admit that I'm a lot smarter about relationships than you are—Maureen notwithstanding, of course. Just think: You know you're in love with her. Maybe that is enough. Maybe it _is_ that simple." He stepped in front of Henry and grabbed Henry's shoulders. "Come on and take a chance. Ask her out. Woo her with your immortal charm. Show her something pretty, or science-y, or something. Make a move. It's time. You're ready. I promise."

After a moment, Abe added, "Also, I think Jo'd be a great stepmother, and I really want to be around to see that."

Ignoring Abe's comment, Henry said, "Well, until her heating is fixed, she's just a friend and a guest in our home," and picked up his cup again. "Nothing more."

"A guest who's gonna be sleeping in your bed." Abe smirked, and Henry groaned. "So, are you two gonna share it, or..."

"I swear I remember a time when you were innocent and sweet," Henry said, raising his voice over Abe's. "What ever happened to that child?"

"Really?" Abe sounded baffled. "I've never been like that. Your memory must be getting a bit rusty in your old age. You might wanna get that checked out." Then, he jabbed a finger at Henry's face. "And hey, you're the only one who's rolling around in the gutter here."

Henry swatted the offending hand away. "Me?"

"Yes, you," Abe said. "All _I'm_ saying is I think you should turn on the immortal charm and ask her out, or maybe kiss her, but you think I mean something naughty."

"You were talking about sharing beds," Henry sputtered. "You! And I know you. In your filthy mind, there's no such thing as a man and a woman innocently sharing—"

"Ooh, there she is!"

Henry turned toward the window, and his tirade faded away. Yes, there was Jo, lovely as always. Snowflakes hung in the dark waves of her hair, and clung to her black knit cap and her coat, as soft and delicate as little white feathers. He watched her, transfixed, until she saw him through the window. She grinned and waved, and his heart skipped a series of beats.

Somehow, Henry managed to lift his hand, and he gave her a weak wave in return.

"Invite her in!" Abe nudged Henry's shoulder, and Henry snapped out of his daze. Right, yes. Invite her inside. He set his cup down and hurried toward the door, only half-listening as Abe muttered, "Honestly, for someone so smart you're kind of dumb sometimes, you know."

Henry reached the door before Jo, and he held it open, letting her and the cold wind chasing her inside. They stood in the doorway, smiling at each other, until Abe cleared his throat.

"Sorry," Henry said, and hurriedly closed the door.

Abe laughed, and exchanged enthusiastic greetings with Jo. Then, he excused himself to tend to his soup, leaving Henry alone with Jo and the butterflies swarming in his stomach.

"Thanks again for letting me stay," Jo said, as she removed her coat, and with an apologetic grimace, she added, "The guy I called said it might be a while 'til someone gets over there and fixes my heat, so..."

"Think nothing of it," Henry said, taking her coat and hanging it on the coat rack by the door. "Abe and I are always glad to have you in our home. You'll be sleeping in my room, but don't let that drive you out early. Stay as long as you need. And here." He reached for her bag. "Let me take your things."

"I've got it," she said.

"I insist."

"Henry, really." Jo laughed, and Henry stepped back. "I appreciate your chivalry," she said, "but I'm a modern girl, okay? I can carry my own stuff."

"Of course," he said, with the smallest of bows. "My apologies, Detective."

"Although—is that coffee?" At Henry's affirmative nod, she said, "Okay, I _might_ let you indulge in your seriously old-fashioned gentleman tendencies if you give me that cup of coffee over there."

Henry looked at his abandoned cup, laughed, and turned to Jo and said, "We have a deal."

Once they traded, Jo started to take a sip, then paused. "You know what, though?" she said. "I can't help feeling like I'm getting the better end of the deal here."

Henry raised his eyebrows, and hoisted the strap of her bag high on his shoulder. "How so?"

"Well," she said, as they made their way through the maze of antiques, "I take your coffee and your bed, _and_ you're carrying my stuff? Kinda unfair, isn't it?"

"Jo, I assure you, I find it quite rewarding to do favors for a guest. I'm honored that you'd allow me to do this."

"It's carrying a duffel bag, Henry," she said, and stopped beside Abe's desk. "It's not that big of a deal."

Before Henry could express his disagreement, Jo took a sip of her coffee, and she moaned. "Oh," she said, in a low, appreciative voice. Henry's stomach clenched. "Oh, wow. This is—okay, this here?" She pointed at the cup. "This is what all coffee should taste like." After another drink, she asked, "Which one of you guys made this, so I can handcuff you in the break room and make you make my coffee forever?"

"Ah, that would be me," he said, and he licked his lips and forced a grin. "I've been told I have quite the talent for making hot beverages."

"You've been holding out on me, then, Henry," she said, scowling, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes. "I've been working with you all this time, and I've had to settle for crappy coffee when you could do this?"

"It takes time to prepare a proper cup of coffee," he said, and waved her forward. As he followed her upstairs, he went over the steps for making high-quality coffee, detailing the process and the rest of the necessities. To his surprise, Jo didn't cut him off for lecturing. So Henry continued talking, and Jo listened intently, until they reached the top.

Then, they parted ways, Jo bound for the kitchen, Henry for his room.

* * *

Once he put Jo's belongings away, Henry headed for the kitchen to join Abe and Jo. Voices came from the room, mingled with the cozy aromas of chicken soup and apple pie. Henry smiled. Jo and Abe had become quite the pair since the day she showed up at the shop with an old photograph and a need for the truth. Over lunches and drinks, the two had forged a strong bond during those long months she'd refused to speak to Henry. When she'd needed guidance, Abe had been there, helping her adapt to Henry's strange, impossible reality, and leading her to some sort of understanding.

"She's just had her entire world turned upside down," Abe had said to Henry one night, while Henry moped. "You know what they say about death and taxes, right? Well, she's just found out one of those things isn't as certain as she thought, and her friend is one of the exceptions to that rule."

"I'm not sure I can be called her friend anymore," Henry said, and he'd sighed and poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. "She won't speak to me, she won't work with me..."

"Of course she won't—she's pissed. You should've listened to me all those times I told you you could tell her. You should've listened to me. Now she's gone, because you're a liar, and you never trusted her, and you took her for granted. But you know something? I don't think she's gone forever. For now, yeah, but for good? Nah. She'll come around. Just give her time. You've got plenty of it."

Abe was right, as he often was. Jo came back. She knew everything, and she came back. Thank goodness.

Henry reached the kitchen in time to hear Abe say, "I'll tell you the same thing I told Henry: You've got to make—"

Abe abruptly paused. Then, raising his voice, he said, "Make sure you start out with a good stock when you're making chicken soup. Otherwise, it'll turn out meh. But anyway, yeah, Mom's the one who taught me how to cook, but Henry's the one who insisted I learn it."

Henry tilted his head, considering Abe's quick digression. Working on him _and_ Jo? Abe truly was shameless. Henry chuckled under his breath. Deciding to play along, he stepped into the kitchen and said, "Cooking is an incredibly useful skill," narrowing his eyes at Abe.

Suddenly, it seemed the soup needed Abe's full attention. Abe muttered something about the rice, and turned to the large pot to give the bubbling soup a stir.

With a smirk, Henry continued. "One may not always have someone else around to prepare a nourishing meal."

Jo recovered from the awkward interruption first. "Speaking from experience?" she asked.

"Oh, yes." Henry made his way over to the table, and he poured himself a glass of Pinot noir and leaned against a chair. "But there aren't any stories worth telling on that front, I'm afraid. Just lessons learned from many years of bachelorhood and solitude."

Henry took a lengthy sip of his wine. Those were some of the lonelier years of his life. Best not to dwell on those. "In any case, I highly recommend everyone learn to cook."

"And learning how is fun," Abe said, perking up again. "Or it was for me anyway. I mean, I got to make a mess, spend time with my mom and dad, play with sharp knives and fire—what more could a kid want?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Abe added, "Plus, I found out later on that the ladies usually love a guy who knows how to cook," and winked at Jo. She laughed, and Abe grinned.

Talk of cooking continued throughout dinner. As the three of them enjoyed steaming bowls of chicken soup with wild rice, Abe extolled the virtues of meal preparation to a skeptical Jo. Content to simply observe, Henry sat back and listened to the two people he cared for most chatting with each other.

Jo didn't care much for cooking, she revealed. "I mean, I'm not one of those people who burns water. I can cook. I just really don't like it, and I never have enough time..."

"You have to make time," Abe said. "When you can't find time, you've gotta push something aside and make it."

"I know, but..." Jo looked down, and swirled the wine in her glass. "Sean was the cook. When he had time, he had a lot of fun with it. It was his thing, not mine."

Henry understood. Wordlessly, he reached across the table and took her hand in his, offering simple comfort. With the tiniest hint of a smile, she squeezed his hand.

Then, Jo took a deep breath, and she raised her head. "But I should probably give it another chance, shouldn't I? I mean, if nothing else, I'd make Mama and my sister happy."

"And me," Abe said, and offered an open invitation to use their kitchen.

Abe talked about cooking like poetry, like music, dominating the conversation with passion reminiscent of Abigail's, and with Henry's own sense of joyous wonder. As Abe held court over the table, capturing Henry's and Jo's attention and refusing to let go, fierce pride and love filled Henry's chest to bursting. He suspected he spent most of the meal beaming like a fool, but he could hardly help himself. His son was magnificent, and the best child a parent could ask for.

When Henry went to put the empty bowls in the sink, he couldn't resist kissing the top of Abe's head. Abe groaned and swatted at him, and Henry and Jo laughed as Abe said, "Dad," like a grumpy teenager.

"Sorry for embarrassing you in front of our lovely guest," Henry said, his tone making it clear he didn't regret it in the slightest. "But you being a grown man doesn't mean I get to neglect one of my most important parental duties, Abraham."

"What's that?" Abe grumbled. "Embarrassing me?"

 _Loving you,_ Henry corrected in his head, as he squeezed Abe's shoulder. Then, he leaned in and whispered, "Consider it revenge for what you said earlier," and patted Abe on the back.

"Oh, yeah? Which thing?"

With an expansive shrug, Henry said, "Take your pick."

Jo watched the two of them with a fond smile. "You two are..." She trailed off with a small laugh. "I don't know. Something else. But it's great. That you two have each other."

"And we have you, too," Abe said. "If you'll have us, of course. And by 'us,' I mean the high-maintenance dandy over there, 'cause I know you'll have me. Who can resist this face, huh?"

* * *

When the three of them finished servings of the Dutch apple pie Abe fixed for dessert, they retreated to the living room. Henry's cheeks ached from smiling. Happiness warmed him from deep inside, a rare sense of hard-earned peace amidst the chaos of his heart and life. A full stomach, a glass of wine, and the people he loved. He could hardly imagine a better evening.

A short time ago, a night like this wouldn't have happened, not after he'd lost Jo to his own foolishness.. Henry tried to push away the memories of her absence. They haunted him, another dark time he'd never forget. But she was back, had slipped into his life again, as Abe had assured him would happen, and was comfortable around Henry once more.

Henry forced himself to focus on the good. Like Jo sitting beside him on the couch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. Like the smile on her face as she relaxed against the soft cushions and sipped her wine. Like Abe sprawled in his chair, loose-limbed and content.

Outside, the snow fell harder than before—a much better subject to think about than those days without Jo. He pointed it out for others, grateful for the distraction.

"If only I were a few years younger," Abe said. "Snow like that?"

"Henry'd never get a moment's rest, would he?" Jo asked.

"No, he would not," Abe said, puffing out his chest. "See, I was a champion snowball fighter back in the day. If I had an excuse?" He balled up his fist and smacked it into his palm. "Wham! I got 'em every time."

Dryly, Henry said, "You say this as though you haven't attacked anyone with snow since you were a child, you shameless troublemaker."

"Don't get in between me and my leftover pierogies, and I won't ambush you again." Abe took a drink of his wine. "Speaking of troublemaking, though, do you remember the igloo? The one Mom and I built that one time?"

Henry chuckled. "Indeed I do."

Jo leaned in toward Abe. "I need to hear about this, don't I?"

As Abe told the story, Henry looked back at the memory. The night before, Abigail had lamented the excessive snowfall, and Abe commented that the snow would be good for play. Henry jumped into the conversation with several other uses for snow, carefully skirting around the ways he'd learned a few of those tricks. No child needed to know so much about their father's many deaths.

Abe had been especially interested in the edible uses of snow, insisting on making snow cream that night, and in the idea of an igloo. Back then, it seemed as though Abe and Abigail started and completed a large creative endeavor every day, so Henry wasn't surprised that they made an attempt.

When Henry came home from work the next day, he'd found that Abe and Abigail had spent the day building a lopsided, yet serviceable igloo in front of the house. It was the first time Abe had seemed truly happy since they'd left New York.

"Mom was really good at that kind of thing," Abe said. "If I had an idea for something I wanted to make, she made it happen."

"She always knew how to make people happy," Henry said. "That was one of her greatest talents." For once, a small sip of wine was enough to dull the familiar ache in Henry's chest, and he managed a genuine smile. "She was a truly wonderful person."

Then, he turned to Abe and said, in a teasing voice, "I still say you deliberately built that thing to be too small for anyone else to fit inside, though."

Abe huffed. "Hey, building a decent igloo's hard work when you're a kid. Mom and I spent all day working on that thing, and it still turned out small. But it fit me just fine."

"I bet you were proud of it," Jo said.

"Oh, he was," Henry said. "He even insisted on eating his dinner in it that night—though I did draw the line when he begged us to let him sleep in it."

"I'm still kind of bitter about that, by the way," Abe grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

In a dry tone, Henry said, "Really?"

Abe chuckled, and dropped his hands back in his lap. "Nah, not really. I've had enough uncomfortable adventures since then to make up for missing out on that one. And I got to see you and Mom making snow angels, so—"

"Wait," Jo interrupted. "Snow angels. _Henry_ making snow angels?" She laughed. "Okay, I would pay to see that, seriously."

"What are you implying?" Henry asked, drawing himself up. "I'll have you know that I am more than capable of having fun, Detective."

"He was a really great dad," Abe said. "Still is. Even though he's not as much fun as he used to be because he's turned into a grumpy old man..."

Henry huffed. "I'm hardly the only one here who has."

"Here? In this room?" Abe asked. "Yeah, you are. Seriously, though—if I had a picture, Jo, I'd show you. It's just as funny as it sounds. But Dad here, he never has been that into having his picture taken. There aren't that many casual pictures of him lying around."

The advent of photography had been tremendous. Sometimes, Henry lamented that he couldn't have his picture taken on a whim like everyone else. Luckily, he had his memory.

"It's not a very good idea for one who doesn't age to keep too many photos of themselves lying about," he said. "Now that digital imagery is so ubiquitous, having my picture taken is less of a carefully calculated affair. It's a bit safer. Before all of these newfangled programs..."

"Not so much," Abe finished. Then, with a grin, he added, "But that doesn't mean there aren't some real doozies of Henry here lying around that you really need to see." He set his glass aside and pushed himself up from his seat. "I'll go down and get them. Be right back."

When Abe stepped out, Henry and Jo settled into comfortable silence. She dropped her head onto Henry's shoulder with a sigh, and he scooted closer, making it easier for her to rest. "Are you all right?" he asked, slipping an arm around her.

"Long day," she said. "Tired. But we got the bad guy, so. Can't complain."

"Nor can I." He leaned his head against hers, enjoying the luxury of her presence, and as he breathed, he caught the faint, ambiguous fragrance of her soap wafting from her clean hair and skin. She felt good beside him, like she belonged there, with the curves of her body fitted perfectly against him. "We did quite well today, didn't we?"

She hummed an agreement. "We're a good team."

"That we are."

And he wanted to keep that. For a time, he'd thought Adam's pugio had sliced an irreparable rift between them, that their partnership had been permanently severed the moment he'd learned about the dagger. All Jo had wanted was the truth, the one thing Henry had been so unwilling to give, until telling her everything was no longer enough.

While she'd been gone, all he'd wanted was her—to work with her, drink with her, speak to her. Losing her to the disintegration of his flimsy web of lies had been agony. But she needed someone she could trust, who trusted her in return. Not him.

Then, she came back.

"No more secrets," she'd told him, the night she stood in his lab and let him back in. "If I ask you something, you tell me. If something's wrong, you tell me. If you need a cop, or-or a friend, tell me. No more shutting me out. No more lies, no more secrets—not with me."

He didn't deserve her. And yet, life kept gifting him with so much more than he'd ever deserved. Holding Jo, having her in his life—it was a privilege, just as Abigail had been.

He'd never deserved Abigail, either, in spite of her repeated insistence to the contrary. _"You're a good man, Henry,"_ Abigail had said, on that dreadful night she'd learned everything. _"A kind, gentle, loving man. You deserve to have that kindness and love returned to you, no matter what you think. It's not your fault you're like this."_

Jo wasn't Abigail. She hadn't forgiven him nearly as quickly, not even when she'd reached some sort of understanding of his motives. Perhaps that had been for the best. He'd needed the agony, the sharp and heartbreaking reminder of how much she meant to him.

Now that she'd returned, he understood. He wanted to give her the world. He loved her.

No. He was in love with Jo.

Once the realization dawned on him, Henry expected his mood to come crashing down. It didn't. Instead, something fell into place inside him, filling him with satisfaction instead of the usual fear. Whether it was from the wine, from the lovely evening, or from, as Abe would likely say, "personal growth," Henry didn't dismiss the idea of loving Jo. She'd proven herself capable of bearing the weight of his biggest secret, had accepted him, and was incredible beyond that. If she wanted him, he'd gladly spend the rest of her life with her.

Jo toed off her shoes, and they landed on the floor with a pair of soft thumps. "This is nice," she said, stretching her legs, and she groaned quietly. "Cozy. I missed this. Us. You."

"And I missed you." He kissed the top of her head, and whispered, "Thank you for coming back," in her hair.

"You're welcome."

He'd do whatever it took to keep her, which meant giving her all of the truth. Even the truths that terrified him. Like this one.

But Abe was right. It _was_ time.

"Jo," he began. "I—"

He was interrupted by Abe's footsteps coming up the stairs. "Found it!" Abe said, holding up a locked black box, then he paused on the top step. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, in a sly voice, and gestured between Henry and Jo.

Henry rolled his eyes, while Jo untangled herself from Henry's grasp. "Just resting my head for a little bit," Jo said, voice light with amusement.

"Nothing untoward happened in your absence, I assure you," Henry added.

"Hm. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed." Abe shrugged, then waved the box and made his way over to join them. "Anyway, I come bearing pictures, many of them embarrassing, all of them suspicious and potentially incriminating."

They made room for Abe on the couch, and Abe unlocked and opened the box. Chuckling, he pulled out a picture, and said, "Bet you can't guess who," then handed the framed picture to Jo.

Jo's eyes went soft, and she uttered a small, "Aww. That is so cute."

She passed the picture to Henry, and he grinned. It was of him holding Abe when Abe was only a baby, the two of them regarding each other with huge, beaming smiles, while Abe clutched Henry's tie in one tiny, chubby fist. So many years ago, but it seemed like yesterday. He could still feel the weight of young Abe in his arms, the softness of Abe's fragile skin, the soreness in his chest as hope and joy and love filled his heart to bursting.

"Best impulsive commitment I've ever made," Henry murmured, tracing baby Abe's plump, glass-covered face. His chest ached from how much he loved his son. Eyes stinging, he looked up, and said, "Abe, I—"

"Don't." Abe raised a hand. "Don't do it, Pops. Don't get sappy on me."

"Can you blame him?" Jo asked. "You were a really cute baby."

"Happiest baby I've ever seen," Henry said. "Grew up to be a bit of a terror, though."

"Hey," Abe said, more amused than offended. "I've turned out all right—haven't I, Jo? But, hey, if you wanna see something that's _really_ 'a bit of a terror,' you should take a look at..." He trailed off, digging in the box, then held up a picture with a triumphant cry. "This!"

Jo took the proffered picture from Abe, and, after a moment, she clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle. "Okay, that's...I got nothing."

Henry glanced at the picture, then looked away and groaned. "It was the 1960's."

"No," Abe said, "that atrocity was from the '70's."

"Right. The '70's. The worst fashions sort of blur together after a while." He shook his head. "I still haven't figured out what on earth we were all thinking back then."

"Thinking or smoking?" Jo asked, and laughed again. Henry turned to her, scowling, but his irritation and embarrassment died away at the sight of her. Jo's eyes glowed in the lamplight, hints of amber-gold emerging from the deep brown, sparkling as she laughed.

Oh, how he loved her delightful laugh. Jo was always beautiful, but happiness transformed her from stunning to captivating, even when the source of her amusement was him. He would gladly be the butt of every joke if it made her laugh like that forever.

"You got anything else like that?" she asked Abe.

"Do I? Oh, yes."

Abe retrieved several more pictures from the box, and he and Jo looked over them, poking fun at Henry's more regrettable attire. As Henry listened to Jo comment and laugh, he fell deeper into her thrall. The shapes of her pink lips around every word, the feel of her body so close to his side, the clever and wonderful person beneath her beauty—they all captivated him. His fondness for her grew stronger, filling him with warmth.

Even when the laughter and the conversation faded, Henry's smile stayed in place. He settled back against the couch, enjoying the glow in his chest, and took a sip of his wine. Over the rim of his glass, he noticed Abe watching him, and Henry tipped his glass to his son in a silent toast.

Abe grinned, his pride obvious, and he returned the gesture before relaxing in his chair.

Jo noticed the exchange, and she glanced between the two of them. "Everything okay?" she asked.

"Yes," Henry replied, confident, at the same time Abe said, "Never better."

With a dramatic, fake yawn, Abe got to his feet. "All right, you kids," he said. "I think it's time for me to head on to bed."

Dryly, Henry said, "How very subtle of you."

"I know, right?" Abe chuckled. "Anyway, you two have fun, all right? And don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"There's very little you _wouldn't_ do, Abraham," Henry said.

"So I guess you two don't have to worry too much, huh?" Abe left the room, but paused before he disappeared from sight. Once he caught Henry's eye again, he mouthed, _Make a move._ Henry rolled his eyes, and Abe grinned, then headed off to bed.

Make a move.

Hardly helpful advice. Henry pursed his lips. He'd found solutions with less than that before.

* * *

They placed the pictures back into the box, then headed down to Henry's lab to put them away. As Jo wandered around, Henry tucked the box into its place and considered Abe's suggestion. Make a move. If only it were that simple, he thought, watching Jo. If only.

"Hey, Henry?" she said, interrupting his thoughts. "There's something I keep meaning to ask."

Henry glanced toward her, and found her standing in front of his aquarium, watching the jellyfish move like ghosts through the blue-lit water. "Anything."

"Why do you have jellyfish?" She tilted her head, frowning at the eerie and, in Henry's opinion, serene and beautiful creatures. "They're kind of weird."

"These are _Turritopsis dohrnii,_ the so-called 'immortal jellyfish.'" He pushed himself up and brushed the dust off his knees, then went to join her by the tank. "You see, _T. Dohrnii_ is theoretically immortal, able to indefinitely revert to its initial polyp state when needed. Usually, I keep larger, mortal species of jellyfish, but I was finally able to acquire these for research a few months ago. I thought perhaps they might somehow prove to be related to my own condition."

"And were they?"

Shaking his head, Henry replied, "Alas, no. Another dead end." He reconsidered his words. "Or perhaps 'undead end' would be better. Except for our shared immortality—of which, mine seems to be the more permanent variety—I'm afraid we are as different as any other human and jellyfish. I've checked."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"No, no, don't be! They're actually quite fascinating creatures." He leaned forward, getting a closer look. "And discovering that their immortality and mine are in no way connected kept me from taking my research in another wrong direction. Sometimes, a disproven hypothesis can be as valuable as a proven one."

Gaze following the delicate, amorphous creatures in the tank, Henry softly added, "And I enjoy their presence. Watching them can be very soothing."

"They are kind of pretty," she said, laying her hand high on Henry's back, and his breath caught in his throat at the simple touch. "In a weird kind of way."

Abe's words echoed in his head. _Show her something pretty._ Somehow, he doubted the jellyfish qualified—at least not to Abe. So, he glanced around the room, searching for another idea. The thick layer of white nearly covering the windows above caught his eye. Perhaps he could show her that in a new way, help her see more of winter's beauty and the splendor of the world. Abigail and Abe had both enjoyed it when he'd shown them closer glimpses of snow. Maybe Jo would as well?

Yes, that seemed like a good idea. He had the equipment, and he could make hot chocolate for her after...perfect.

"I know it's getting a bit late," he said, unable to help bouncing on his heels, "but I'd like to show you something. Tell me, Jo, have you ever looked at snowflakes under a microscope?"

"Uh, no?" she said, turning from the jellyfish to him. "But I did do that black paper thing with my sister when we were kids." Henry's unfamiliarity with the idea must've shown on his face, because she explained, "Where you let snowflakes fall on a black piece of paper and try to see the shapes?"

That made sense. "Sounds lovely," he said, sincerely. "I might have to try that with Abe sometime. But this way's much better. Come with me." Henry grinned. "I'll show you."

In spite of Jo's protests that it was the middle of the night, Henry grabbed one of his microscopes and some clean slides, and he urged Jo to follow him. "Every snowflake really is unique," he said, as he led her upstairs. "Even if a few of them happen to appear nearly identical. And the best way to see that is through a microscope."

Though she was going along with his plan, Jo looked unconvinced. As she was halfway through buttoning her coat, Henry took her hands and said, "It's worth it, Jo—I promise. They truly are quite beautiful."

_Like you._

They made their way outside, into the cold. A thick coat of snow covered everything, with more falling like stars from the dark sky above, muffling the world. Even the sound of passing cars and the sharpness of the frigid wind slicing through their clothes and skin seemed muted, softened by the peaceful snow.

"This isn't gonna take long, is it?" Jo asked, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

"It shouldn't," he replied, as he turned on the microscope. Then, he pulled a slide from his pocket. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "Try to catch some snowflakes on this. Shouldn't be too difficult."

Jo shook her head, but held up the thin plate of glass anyway. "This better be worth it," she muttered, as snowflakes landed on the slide. "Let me know when I have enough."

"You already do," he said, and gently took it from her. "And now comes the tricky part: sliding this into place with these thick gloves, and not melting too many of the snowflakes."

Soon, it was ready. He peered into the microscope and adjusted it, until the flakes came into focus. Each one was breathtaking, tiny sparkling crystals spreading across the glass in magnificent spiked formations, all of them delicate and impossibly intricate.

"This is absolutely worth it," he said, pulling away, and he held the microscope for her. "They're stunning. I promise."

Jo looked into the scope, and she let out a tiny, almost inaudible gasp. "Oh," she said, voice just above a whisper. "Oh, wow. These are so...they're beautiful. _Henry..._ "

Henry didn't care one whit about the snow. His gaze refused to leave her. His skin ached for hers. His heart begged him to touch her. So he gave in to the impulse, pressing himself against her side, and he watched the joy light up her partly obscured face. "I told you it was worth it," he said, against her ear, his voice low.

Jo turned to him, her eyes huge, and she glanced at his lips, for only a moment. Then, her eyes met his. Henry swallowed, and he held his breath. It would be so easy to kiss her, to bridge the short distance between them and press his cool lips to hers. If only he could move. But her stare pinned him in place, slipped easily under his skin, while a pink sliver of her tongue slid across her lips and stripped his emotions bare.

They stayed like that for a while—he didn't know how long—until a gust of frigid wind snapped them out of their dazes. Henry saw her breath and his own, mingling with the falling snow, and Jo's cheeks were flushed from the chill. "We should head back inside," he said, his voice unexpectedly rough.

Jo's shoulders sagged. "Yeah," she said. "That'd probably be a good idea."

Neither of them moved. Henry couldn't make himself take that first step, couldn't walk away. Holding his breath, he stood with her, waiting for something he couldn't name.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of movement inside the shop. He turned quickly, in time to spot Abe ducking out of sight behind the door to their home.

"We're being watched," he said, laughing as Abe peeked out again, and he gave Abe a small wave.

"Abe?" Jo asked, but when she turned, Abe had already disappeared again. "Okay, spying on Dad totally means he's your kid—and not just because you're the nosiest person I've ever met, either."

"Should I be flattered or insulted?" he teased.

"Flattered, definitely." Jo ducked her head and grinned, then held out the microscope for him to take. "Henry, I...thank you," she said, as he took it from her. "Thank you for showing me this."

"My pleasure." He tilted his head, sizing her up. She was cold—both of them were—and his plan was incomplete. "Now, tell me something, Jo—do you like hot chocolate?"

* * *

Dark chocolate. Milk. Vanilla bean. Cinnamon stick. Sugar. Grand Marnier. Deep breath. Henry set out the ingredients and got to work, focusing on the recipe he'd spent decades perfecting. Yet the dance of simmering, chopping, and whisking did little to distract him from the quivering nerves in his belly. The methodical preparation should've grounded him, but Jo hovered nearby, watching him with curious eyes and little space between them.

"This is a lot of effort for some hot cocoa, Henry," she said.

"Hot chocolate," he corrected, absently. "There is a difference."

"Really? Huh." Then, in a teasing voice, she asked, "Mind telling me, Professor Morgan?"

Nervousness gave way to surprise. He turned to her, eyes wide, incredulous. "Are you asking to hear one of my 'lectures,' Detective?"

Grinning, she replied, "Yup."

So, Henry obliged, detailing the differences between the two drinks while putting together the ingredients. Though she seemed amused, Jo listened, and even asked several questions. Talking finally put him at ease, relieving the anxious tension crawling beneath his skin.

After Henry finished talking, Jo shook her head, and asked, "You do know I'd be okay with the instant hot cocoa, though, right?"

Henry's face contorted in disgust. "You mean that powdered substance that bears little resemblance to actual chocolate?" He whisked harder. "Neither Abe nor I will have that sort of thing in our home. And it's hardly any trouble at all to make _real_ hot chocolate—which, I must add, is an infinitely superior beverage."

Jo chuckled. "Wow, you are such a snob."

"Funny, I seem to remember you not complaining about my coffee earlier," he teased.

"Yeah, but that was coffee," she said. "It's easy to screw up. But this is chocolate. Isn't that always good?"

"Not always." Once satisfied that the melted chocolate was fully incorporated in the milk, Henry turned off the stove top and deposited the whisk in the sink. "Either way, I'm fairly certain you won't complain when you try this."

He poured the thick beverage into a pair of rarely used white mugs, and topped both with homemade marshmallows Abe kept on hand each winter. As he handed Jo her mug, Henry added, "Have I steered you wrong tonight?"

"We'll see." She took a small sip of her drink, then moaned, and Henry's stomach twisted into knots. "Oh my God," she said, closing her eyes in pleasure as she took another drink, and Henry forced himself to focus on his own cup instead of her blissful expression and the happy noises coming from her throat. Madness lay in that direction.

Luckily, Jo kept the conversation innocent. "I can see why Abe keeps you around. This is so good."

"Thank you," Henry said, and sampled the drink himself. Yes, that was good. Rich, flavorful, and sweet, with a citrus tang and an alcoholic edge. Perfect for a cold night. "Abigail and I did leave the alcohol out of the original, and we used a bit more sugar, but it's roughly the same now as it was then." He smiled to himself. "It used to be one of our little traditions."

He cherished those memories—Abigail patiently teaching him how to make the drink, him serving it to Abe on cold afternoons and evenings. Later on, they'd taught Abe how to prepare it as well. "Those were great times. And what about you? What did your family do in the winter, or you and Sean?"

"Most of the stuff I did with Mama was Christmas stuff, but, uh." Jo took a long sip of her drink. "One of the winter things I had with Sean was those crappy hot cocoa packets."

Henry cringed. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"Yeah, I know you didn't. It's fine. They really weren't that great." She glanced down into her cup, then back at Henry. "It was something that started right after we got together. The first time it snowed every year—or the first time we weren't too busy—he'd mix some of the ones with those crunchy little marshmallows with our coffee, and we'd drink it with breakfast. Or, if we couldn't do it in the morning, we'd have it with some Kahlua or something, and he'd stick a candy cane in it on Christmas. And, you know, it wasn't really a big thing, but...it was nice. And it was ours."

"That does sound nice," Henry said.

Jo sighed wistfully. "I miss it."

Her _I miss him_ went unspoken, but Henry heard it nonetheless. He took her hand in his, and quietly said, "I understand."

"I know." Her eyes met his, and she entwined their fingers together. "He was a great guy—one of the best. I'll never forget him."

She squeezed Henry's hand, and said, "And you'll never forget her."

"No," Henry said, "I won't. She was a remarkable woman. Just as you'll never stop loving him, I'll never stop loving her. And even though it'll probably hurt, they'll never go away. They'll always have an important place in our hearts."

"I hope so," she said, and wiped her damp eyes with her free hand. "I never want to forget him."

"Then don't." He took a deep breath, and ran his thumb over the back of Jo's hand, grounding himself with her smooth, dry skin and the fall and rise of flesh and bone. Calm settled over him, easing the pounding of his heart and the swooping in his gut, and he hoped he was providing her with the same comfort. "I'll never ask you to."

"Henry," she said, quietly, hesitantly. "What are you..."

He swallowed, and looked down at their joined hands. "Abigail's gone now," he said, "and I think..." His voice caught in his throat.

 _"You're here now,"_ he remembered saying to Abigail once, and as she had been then, Jo was here now. Kind, wonderful Jo—his friend, his partner, and so much more. Abigail would live on in his memories and his heart, but Jo was here now.

Jo was here now. Jo was alive.

And so was he.

Smiling ever so slightly, Henry said, "I think it's time for me to move on. I think I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" she asked, and stepped closer, wrapping a hand loosely around his forearm. Jo's eyes met his, shining and full of hope, and Henry's heart started pounding. He wanted to pull her against him, ached to wrap his arms around her.

"No," he admitted, and gave in to the urge to hold her. Jo let out a small breath, and her arms slid around his waist as he splayed his hands across her back. She was solid and strong and familiar, the shape and smell and heat of her soothing and terrifying all at once. As he looked into her eyes, he wondered how he could be so lucky to have loved not one, but two equally incredible women. "But I am a lot more certain than I've been in the past. And I think I'd like to move on with you."

Jo bit her lip, and Henry caressed her cheek with his thumb. Her skin was soft, warm, wonderful. His small smile grew wider. "You are a remarkable woman as well, Jo Martinez. And mere words cannot express just how much I admire and adore you."

"Henry..."

"If you'll have me," he continued, voice just above a whisper, and he traced the pad of his thumb across her lower lip, "I'm all yours. May I kiss you, please?"

Jo swallowed. "Yeah, I...yeah."

He tilted her chin, and Jo met him halfway, joining them together as his eyes fell closed. Their mouths moved slowly against each other, a gentle, languid slide of her lips on his. Kissing her was as simple as breathing, yet dizzying and intoxicating. The world faded, leaving only him and Jo behind.

His hand slipped around her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he cradled her head. Tiny moans rose from her throat, and he breathed them in, and kissed her harder, enjoying the taste of her, the smell, the wonder of her body against his. No urgency, no hesitation. Just this, him giving himself to her, pouring himself into the kiss, filling it with all he couldn't say—damn his cowardly heart—as he listened to all her lips told him. 

They pulled apart and caught their breath, and Henry rested his forehead against hers. What did she see as she looked into his eyes? Who did she see? Not the sort of person she deserved, no doubt, no matter how much he wished the opposite were true. But he could try to be that man, yes. Oh, he would try.

"Jo," he whispered. "Jo."

"Hey," she said, and smiled. "I'm here."

He kissed her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the poem "Snowy Night" by Mary Oliver
>
>> _Snow was falling,_  
>  _so much like stars_  
>  _filling the dark trees_  
>  _that one could easily imagine_  
>  _its reason for being was nothing more_  
>  _than prettiness._  
> 


End file.
